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Good vibes, bad vibes

We had an earthquake last night. Nothing serious or you would have heard about it already. It lasted around six seconds, ground vibrating, furniture wobbling. Wow! What the fuck is that?! I'd never experienced an earthquake before, coming from Ireland where the only time the ground moves is when Bono comes home for a weekend.My first earthquake! Around the same time, a mag 6.5 'quake struck northern Chile, just across the border, so I guess there's a connection.It was fine though, actually quite a pleasant experience; the vibrations briefly massaging my muscles as my brain tried to work out what was going on. Good vibes man, good vibes.

Friday is always "Fun Friday" at Escuela Flora Tristán, but there was no fun to be had today. They had me hauling rocks in buckets from the quarry behind the school. Rocks! Lugging them up the hill with the metal handles biting into my hands, before plonking the damned things in the yard. Chain gang work if ever there was.I would feel slightly more fulfilled if I didn't think it was a complete waste of time. The rocks are to be used to pave the yard, despite the fact it would mean no one will be able walk on it.Buckets of water also had to be fetched, just for variety, and then, during the lessons, a delivery of concrete blocks was made. More lugging to be done. (Incidentally, the bricks were made of shite. Several of them just crumbled when I plonked them down again. God help them if a 6.5 mag 'quake strikes nearby.)So, my first day as a brickie was very probably my last. I guess I shouldn't have expected a fun Friday on the 13th.

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After I wrote this, I went to the cinema across the road to see 2012, a film which capitalises on the (hopefully mistaken) Mayan belief of the end of the world as we know it on December 21st, 2012.Jaysus, what utter pig-scutter. The one comfort I could take from watching it was the knowledge that should the end of the world come to pass, it will put an end to the making of absolute shite like this. Even the impressive computer-generated scenes of destruction couldn't save what is truly an woeful film.

WHEN THE earthquake hit Dublin, no one expected it. There hadn’t been any significant seismic activity in Ireland since 1951, and even that event had been comparatively mild, writes KARL WHITNEY

Then, at about 7.57am on July 19th, 1984, with no advance warning, the earth shook with a previously unknown ferocity in Dublin and all the way along the east coast of Ireland. The epicentre of the quake was at a point south-west of Caernarvon on the Lleyn peninsula in Wales.

The focus of the earthquake was a fault line 20km below ground level: two plates of the Earth’s crust slipped against each other, causing friction, which built up into the tremendous energy that was abruptly, violently, released as an earthquake. The resulting tremor took mere moments to reach the Irish coast and, once it hit, the effects lasted between five and 10 seconds.

The possibility that an earthquake would affect Ireland had previously seemed remote; an earthquake, or temblor, was something exotic – something that happened on the other side of the world – rather than something that shook you out of bed and made your house creak and sway on a Thursday morning. It was either that or you knew it as a metaphor: dramatic, seemingly life-changing news events were routinely referred to as being like an “earthquake”.

But when the earth moved, the earth really did move.

People rolled out of shaking beds all over the east coast; some checked to see if the noise had been made by men on the roof, or if there had been an explosion. One woman wondered why the pans in her kitchen were shaking. Another woman on a bus into the city centre, on her way to work, felt the vehicle lurch oddly. A man convinced himself that his washing machine had switched itself on, and that it was now jumping around the room. Another man, living at the top of the Thomas Clarke tower in Ballymun, felt the whole building sway. Some didn’t notice it at all.

Spudnik Ó Fathaigh has called Berlin home since St. Patrick’s Day 2008, when he arrived doe-eyed and thirsty after a ferry from Ireland and long drive through France. The doe-eyes have since been surpassed by those of his son, as doe-eyed as they come, but the thirst is yet to be cured.
Three stolen bikes, innumerable bike-theft attempts, eight mobile phones and countless (and counting) Sternis later, der Irische Berliner – as he’s also known – spends his time poking his nose where noses aren't welcome and bestowing the benefits of his foul language and gutter speak on the locals.
Of course, he’s a local now too. When not working on amusing alliteration combinations or ignoring Betreten Verboten signs, Spudnik rants, rages and reports to the best of his frightening ability.